


into the unknown

by starforged



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Stress Relief, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 12:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20209894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/pseuds/starforged
Summary: Hawke thinks Aveline works too hard. Aveline thinks Hawke is why she works too hard.





	into the unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).

“I knew it,” Hawke exclaims.

Aveline, having been used to such intrusions over the last few years, doesn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork. The city is a mess. Part of it _is_ Hawke’s fault, and here she is, captain and all that comes with it, cleaning up after her disaster of a friend. It’s - well, the job certainly never gets boring. 

“Knew what?”

“That you would still be here. It’s late. You didn’t come to The Hanged Man for drinks.” A shadow moves through the candlelight, the thumping of boots filling the room. 

“Yes. I know,” Aveline says. She thought about it. It’s not that she doesn’t love her friends, nightmares that they all are. It’s that she doesn’t exactly fit into them, does she? Like she’s wedging herself into a spot much too small for her, the big girl that she is. 

With a sigh, Hawke leans across the desk, slapping a hand over the work Aveline is _just_ about to sign, and the quill instead marks up her bare hand, black ink and the barest drop of blood. She finally bothers to look up, if only because there’s a rolling irritation threatening to batter against her skull. The irritation looks surprisingly just like Marian Hawke herself, cocky grin and mischievous blue eyes and a mop of black hair that looks like she just had herself a tumble.

Knowing Hawke, she likely just has. 

“You work too hard,” Hawke tells her, but she pulls her hand back and wipes it across her shirt. 

“And you interrupting me when I’m nearly done is going to help me how?”

Her lip pulls into a pout. Annoying, endearing. “Aveline, everyone else has already left.”

“Everyone else isn’t the Captain of the Guard, Hawke. We all can’t take time off to do as we please.” She gives her a pointed look, but puts down her quill anyway. 

Hawke must take it as a positive sign, that she’s winning this argument, because she hops up on her desk without any invitation - and Aveline would _not_ invite anyone to sit on her desk. “Sure we can. You’re allowed to let loose.”

Leaning forward, Hawke places her hands on Aveline’s shoulders. It brings her in closer, almost nose to nose. There’s a sniff of alcohol on Hawke’s breath, which is her first guess, that this beast of a woman is drunk, but it’s only barely there. Like Hawke had one drink, waited for Aveline, and then decided to go searching for her instead. Aveline inclines her head back, just a bit.

“What are you on about?” Aveline demands in a huff. “I let loose. I spend time with Isabela.”

“That - No. That’s not the same,” Hawke says after a second of hesitation, eyes going glossy for a moment. 

Aveline very much doesn’t want to know. 

She finally shakes Hawke’s hands off of her, and Hawke mercifully leans back, still sitting on her desk, but at least not in her space any longer. 

“How is that not the same?”

“Card games are - I mean, yes. You’re not wrong. I just mean, _let loose_.” Hawke tugs at her own shirt collar, exposing very briefly the tanning skin of her collarbone beneath the fabric. 

A sinking feeling in Aveline’s gut begins to form. There was a conversation once, a joke, where Hawke suggested they be together. Get together. She isn’t quite sure if she just meant sex or if she meant more, but Aveline thought it a terrible idea. 

She loves Hawke. Deeply, truly. It’s hard not to love her, despite all of her failings and faults. She’s always there to pick up the pieces, always there to take care of her friends and family, and Aveline has never regretted a single second of joining them on the way out of Lothering. 

But Hawke is a mess. She’s a bundle of feelings that Aveline doesn’t want to begin to comprehend, anger and guilt and this self-sacrificing need to prove herself to everyone, but mostly herself. Aveline has never wanted to be the one who holds her together. It’s tiring enough as it is to be her friend. 

“Marian.” Her name comes out a sigh she doesn’t intend, soft and exasperated and sad. 

Aveline has to admit, she has been lonely. Her bed stretches empty before her every night. Her hands have long since stopped making her feel beautiful, and Kirkwall keeps her far too busy to have enough time to rediscover those parts of her. She misses Wesley. She misses being held and kissed and touched. 

“I’m not drunk,” Hawke is quick to tell her. “I don’t want to be pushy, either. But you’re so wound up, and I need you to know how much I appreciate you.”

“I don’t need you to seduce me for me to know you appreciate me,” Aveline growls. This is a mess. This is not what she wants. 

It’s almost embarrassing, and she can feel her cheeks heat up at the thought that she has to be offered, what? Pitying and relieving sex?

“No. That came out wrong.”

They stare at each other in silence for a second, and there’s nothing but pure honesty on Hawke’s face, mingling with that cocky tilt of her mouth. 

“Everything I say comes out wrong, Aveline. Haven’t you realized that by now?”

“Isn’t there another person you can woo?”

A beat of silence before Hawke laughs, almost doubling over and falling off of her perch. If not for Aveline’s hands reaching out, for her waist of all places, to steady her, she would have fallen straight into her lap. 

“Did you just say woo?” 

“I assume you are putting a little more thought into this seduction than simply stripping your shirt off.”

“Would that work?”

Aveline’s lips part, but no words come out. She isn’t sure. Would that work? Has she really ever thought of Hawke in a sexual light? Not particularly. She hasn’t allowed herself to go down routes that are simply foolish, can lead to a world of punishment. 

She’s seen women naked before, has appreciated their bodies, has admitted to herself on occasion that if her and Isabela didn’t fight like cats and dogs, if they were similar enough, she would have given into her a long time ago. 

“Does it usually work for you?”

One black brow arches. “A few times, but I didn’t have to really work at it.”

Of course she didn’t. 

“Take it off then.”

She can’t believe she just said that. Did she just say that? Yes. She told Hawke to take her shirt off. And from the surprise that colors Hawke’s face, she must be going through the same internal monologue. 

Shock doesn’t stop her, though, because she’s quick with her fingers, and the tunic is on the floor in a rumpled pile. She isn’t wearing a breast band, which - is that a normal thing for Hawke? Her breasts are full, round, more than a handful if her own hands weren’t so large and manly. There’s a faint scattering of freckles along them, which is utterly soft and adorable. Because there’s a part of Aveline that very much wants to kiss them.

She is painfully aware of how lonely she is right now, staring at Hawke’s chest and wishing for softness.

She drags her gaze back up to Hawke’s face, so open and inviting. So secure in herself. 

“Aveline,” Hawke says. That smirk is gone, that twist of her mouth that makes people want to kiss her or punch her. “I want to be with you. I’m not being selfless and trying to give you some well deserved fun. I want this.”

“You would make this about you.” Her mouth is dry, her skin on fire, but between her thighs is a different story. 

“I’m extremely selfish.” Hawke nods with mock seriousness. It’s out of place with her breasts exposed, nipples hard, and a faint flush coloring her skin. 

There are so many things to consider here, and they are all bouncing around in her skull. Loneliness and sadness and hurt and anger and she doesn’t want to be a conquest and this is friend, her only family left to her. It’s a line. There’s a firm line, but Hawke is sitting here on her desk, shirt off, telling her that she wants Aveline. This beautiful, horrifying warrior of a woman with loose morals and more blood on her hands than anyone. 

It could be easy. She could just have Hawke kiss her and take away the responsibility of deciding this, but that’s not fair to either of them. Aveline wants this, and she has to allow herself to have this. One day or night or many or whatever. Because despite all of it, all of Hawke’s flaws, she trusts her more than anyone in the world. 

There’s a brief flash of disappointment across Hawke’s face when Aveline stands up. Her head tilts. Her collarbone is sharp and exposed when she does this, and it’s more than enough to cement her own decision. Her hands are shaky as she places them on Hawke’s shoulders, leaning down and kissing her. It’s a peck, really, a meeting of lips that happens entirely too fast. Hawke’s mouth is soft but not pliant, too taken aback to register what’s happening. Aveline is just - she’s never felt particularly confident in her ability to seduce _or_ kiss. 

And then Hawke is laughing. “Seriously? We’re not twelve, trying to get a feel in the bushes behind someone’s barn.”

“How did you know that was how my first kiss happened?”

Hawke’s eyes are impossibly bright. “You’re kidding.”

“Yes.” Because Aveline’s first wasn’t until she was nearly eighteen. 

Hawke’s hands come up to cup Aveline’s face, rough fingers gentle on her skin. Her thumb brushes along her jawline, tracing it until it’s on her chin, over her bottom lip. “Give me a real kiss.”

This time, Hawke is waiting for it, and her lips are soft. They envelope her own as she leans back in for a kiss. She sets the pace. It’s slow. So achingly slow, and she knows that must frustrate Hawke, who is likely used to passion and eagerness. But Aveline has always liked to take her time, savoring the taste of her mouth and the feel of her skin under her fingers as she relaxes her hands so they’re not so stiff. 

Hawke's hands are less like blocks, less chaste, and more like a wolf eating a meal. They're in her hair, tugging, brushing against her scalp. They're on her neck, down the muscles of her back, squeezing her biceps and giving a soft moan.

"Thank the Maker you aren't wearing armor," Hawke breathes into her mouth, the words tickling Aveline's lips.

Her legs part, and her hands are on Aveline's hips, pulling her forward, into the warmth of her thighs and holding her close. 

Aveline's afraid that if she speaks, she'll ruin it for herself, that she'll find a way to talk herself out of whatever they might do.

Her hands find their way to Hawke's neck, her jaw, and gently as she can, she tilts her head back. She breathes in the gaps that tries to escape her mouth as moves her mouth against hers, deeper, harder. A sweep of tongue across Hawke's lips. And they remain like that for what feels like hours, hips occasionally grinding together, hands firm as they roam.

Until Hawke moves her mouth away. Before Hawke finds her neck and throat. And Aveline paints a line of kisses across her collarbone. Her hands find Hawke's breasts, kneading them until she's arching into Aveline. 

"On the desk, Captain," she says. Her voice is so husky, laced with desire, and Aveline still doesn't understand what's happening here. 

"What?"

Hawke slides down against her body. "On the desk. Let me show you, Aveline."

Hands on her hips, Hawke guides her around until she's the one against the desk, the sharp edge of wood digging into her thighs. There is absolutely nothing stopping her from overpowering Hawke, from stepping away. But her legs quiver. A heat coils in her belly and lower, lower, low. 

"What, exactly, do you need to show me?" she asks, exasperated. Her words come out in a pant. It's unbecoming, but the way Hawke looks at her says that she thinks differently. 

"My appreciation." Her hands are so hot as she slides then under Aveline's tunic. Slow, slow. When she cups her breasts, she shudders away. 

"Marian."

Their gazes meet. 

"Aveline." Her hands slide down again, tracing over the muscles in her abdomen. "You matter to me so much, and I don't know if that means love."

"I care for you," Aveline says in return. If this is a love confession, it's not entirely unwelcome.

"And now I want to make you come with my mouth because that's a language I do know."

Her face is on fire, as red as her hair, as red as the blood that follows Hawke and herself. Her heart hammers in her chest in a way that it hasn't since that night her and Wesley first had sex. It's excitement and pleasure and the idea of someone wresting control from her.

"Maker's breath."

Hawke grins, deft fingers already tugging down her leggings. "Will you just get on the desk?"

"I haven't even agreed to any of this," Aveline protests.

Her leggings are around her thick thighs. Hawke looks up at her from under her lashes. "You know I can see how wet you are, right?"

Her body might as well have been flung into the sun. "That doesn't mean anything."

"You really are covered in freckles," Hawke whispers, and then her lips replace her hands. She kisses Aveline's thighs, her knees, lavishes her tongue over her hip.

"What happens to us?"

That gets Hawke to stop, and she can finally catch her breath again.

"I don't have all the answers. You usually do."

Aveline is not casual. She has never understood what that has meant, and she doesn't intend to start now. But there is so much about Hawke - friend, family, pain in the ass - that Aveline knows she loves. 

_Loves_.

She easily sits on the edge of her desk and scoots back just far enough to be comfortable. Her leggings are pooled over her boots. Hawke smiles, beautiful and inviting, as she kneels down and begins to remove the obstacles in her way.

"I can't promise that I'm a perfect fit for you," she says. "But I want to be here for you. With you. Can that be enough?"

She knows she means enough for her.

Aveline doesn't know. 

How can she know?

Aveline leans forward, brushing that unruly black hair off of Hawke's face. "Yes."

With a grin, Hawke hooks her fingers into Aveline's underwear. "That's all I need."

The underwear follow her leggings, and a rush of cool air meets the warmth at the apex of her thighs. A shiver runs up her spine. Hawke slides her fingers up her slit and moans.

"Aveline," she says in a voice more sex than normal, "you're so wet." Her tongue lavishes the skin on the inside of her thigh.

She is. She can feel it, the hot coil of desire that makes her entire body throb. It's uncomfortable, if she's being honest, how turned on she is when hardly anything has happened. But those thoughts fall away the second that sharp tongue that often makes her job more difficult follows the trail of her fingers. Aveline grips the edge of her desk. Her head falls back and that uncomfortable throb is a spark of electricity that crackles like Anders' magic.

Hawke moans into her before her lips close around Aveline's clit, and she has to dig her teeth into her lip to keep a whimper inside of her. It does nothing to stop the jerking of her hips. A finger works its way inside of her, slow and gentle. It curls and strokes, so feather light in comparison to Hawke's rapid tongue strokes. Aveline's nails scratch at wood, her joints aching, her back arching. There is no whimper to hide now. She moans, loud and needy, head back and throat exposed. She squeezes her eyes shut. 

Hawke breaks away from her with a gasping breath, adding a second finger. Her movements are purposeful, firm as she fucks her, thrusting in and out. In and out, oh Maker. 

"You taste so good," Hawke whimpers. 

Aveline opens her eyes to find her friend and annoyance staring up at her, blue eyes so dark it's like looking at the night sky. Her lips are parted as she pants, and Aveline's chest heaves in time with hers. 

She's clenching around Hawke's fingers now. "Marian."

Her hand moves more frantically, fingers curling with each thrust. "Say it again."

Aveline winds her fingers through Hawke's hair again, tugging, pulling that beautiful, irritating mouth closer to where the heat has gathered most, to her clit and the throbbing that only her tongue can take care of.

Hawke licks her lips. "Say it again," she repeats.

"Marian!"

The last sound is barely out of her mouth before Hawke is sucking on her clit. She feels the small stinging scrape of teeth, her fingers deep inside of her, and the first blinding shudder begins working its way through Aveline's body. It doesn't creep up; it blindsides her, slamming into her with the grace and force of an ogre, a scream ripping from her throat as her hips stutter with no discernible patter against Hawke's mouth and hand. She's fucked through the orgasm until her body is limp, muscles twitching. She doesn't have the energy to sit up, falling back against her desk.

The world is spinning, colors and sounds. She can smell herself, her scent filling the room. And when Hawke leans over her, still between her legs, she can see her wetness on her face, messy and glistening.

They're both breathless, wordless. She rests her head on Aveline's chest. 

"I'm never going to be able to be in my office again," she says after a bit.

"Because you'll only be thinking about your explosive orgasm?"

And Hawke and her mouth and hands and sweet sincerity. Her misplaced idea of relaxation and love and whatever else she wants out of this. 

"Perhaps." She rests a hand on the back of Hawke's head, stroking gently. It startles Hawke as she lifts her head up. 


End file.
